There is undeniable courage in the specificity of this book. Here is a Sweep of History, 224 years in 400 pages, and damned if it doesn't make bold choices: a focus on the naturalist illustrators as 'progressive' 'patriots', an account of the evolution of Whiggish historicism in the Raj, a hop over even the cursory details of the First World War. Schama could've so easily got stuck in the mud; he comes out light-footed—if dirtied from overeager excursions into Revolutionary France-adjacent feminism and territorial consolidation in Lucknow, Uttar Pradesh. What emerges is a frolicking tapestry—willing to merge Disraeli-ite parson's green sentimentalism with bleak accounts of the drab graves of malnourished children in County Mayo; a literary feel of cultural and economic turmoil that somehow remains grounded. Nothing was more fitting than this book being backended by the dual historiography of Orwell-Churchill; out comes a near-oxymoron: 'Tory Socialism', a tansmogrified belief in a progress situated beyond the brow of the ploughed hill, under the English Oak, within the nestled hamlet.
It's a political perspective that I don't quite share. This is by no means an attack on Schama's 'objectivity'; to borrow Dworkin on Hart: any attempt at description of a complex system (Law, Britain) necessarily dabbles in normativity through descriptive selection and framing. I mean more that Schama positions the movement of Britain as an 'aufheben' without any uplift. His selection of calamities and persistent poverty paint potent pictures of a cycle of unacceptable power-relations—leading to cultural whiplash, into political change. Left underexplored is the genuine, if garishly Whiggish, consistent movement on e.g.: sanitation, child poverty, violent crime, often driven by the very same Victorian or Youngian moralists and capitalists Schama is keen to undermine. We are witness to countless famines, destitute ramblers, blackened heaths. And then at undefined points these calamities seem to stop or soften. The missing element is the 'How'? A steely focus on the down-and-out and their travails (broken only by political profiles), as necessary and heartbreaking as it is, can completely miss the movement of average wellbeing markers; the wood for the trees. And it seeps through this illustration—of Britain as a body politic slowly learning not to ignore its underworld, slowly learning progressive pragmatism—that this 'progress' people so desire is automatic, self-perpetuating, and that all is left is for the culture, the politics, to squabble over the distribution of these rewards. Missing in action is that great fin de siecle invention: the engine of prosperity—cultural and economic. Schama paints the British progressive dialectic and its never-ending 'resolution' without stopping to recognise that the way in which we have moved is, in fact, forward—and without the willingness to accept that this directionality is driven by the same force that dislocates, that urbanises, that brings about periods of dire discomfort, death, squalor: Schumpeterian creative destruction. 18th century Britain created and then incubated an engine of almost unimaginable prosperity. The sometimes temporary, sometimes permanent, dislocation this movement brings is a necessary and unfortunate corollary. The ugliest of a world of ugly tradeoffs. Romantic calls to Celtic roots, to Rousseauian nature, remind us that we are human; that we are not and cannot be mere cogs, that we should endeavour to commune and philanthropise and feel. But it cannot be allowed to swallow the pride of a political, economic, industrial and cultural elite that literally birthed the Modern World. Call Trevelyan cruel as he declares that Western Ireland needed weaning off the potatato, sneer at Arthur Young's insistence that rural community must give way to parcelled enclosure of commercial farmland. It doesn't make either of them any less right. Modern British history often feels like an attempted moderation of Victorian zeal that has quite simply Gone Too Far. Schama is probably the best writer of this cohort. What we require is a recognition of the brutal, but correct, logic birthed of Lancastrian industrialism: an economy, an empire, thrives on the strength of its best, which eats into the original, traditional, livelihoods of its weakest. This is uncomfortable rather than evil. The net result is in fact pretty miraculous.